


The Fenress Bride

by svenharel (svensationalist)



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, F/M, Humor, Parody, Princess Bride AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svensationalist/pseuds/svenharel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ridiculous parody of The Princess Bride, featuring Fenris as Buttercup and Isabela as Westley.<br/><i>Scaling the Mount of Sunder, battling Spiders of Unusual Size, facing torture in the Lair of Despair — true love has never been a snap.  He gets kidnapped. She gets killed. But it all ends up okay.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broody and Booty

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [some hilarious drawings by poupon](http://svenharel.tumblr.com/post/20862120495) that I saw on tumblr. (I'd link to her page, but her tumblr theme makes it difficult to see the drawings.) Used [the movie transcript](http://fringe.davesource.com/Fringe/Entertainment/Scripts/The_Princess_Bride.html) as reference for the characters’ lines, and there are some altered quotes from the novel as well.

Scaling the Mount of Sunder, battling Spiders of Unusual Size, facing torture in the Lair of Despair — true love has never been a snap.

He gets kidnapped. She gets killed. But it all ends up okay.

 

* * *

 

_“I’ve had… gentler invitations.”_

_“I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry.”_

_“And just, ah… what are you seeking?”_

_“The Champion.”_

_“Which one?”_

_“You know_ exactly _why I’m here! Time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you’re good at it.”_

_“Heh. What do you want to know?”_

_“Everything. Start at the beginning.”_

_“Well, then… I have a special present for you.”_

_“A book?”_

_“That’s right. When I was your age, I read plenty of books and found that I had a kinship with stories. And this is a special book. It is the book that I wrote myself, filled with my most popular tale. And today I’m going to tell it to you.”_

_“Does it have the Champion in it?”_

_“Are you kidding? Duelling, fighting, torture, Vengeance, guardswomen, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, magic…”_

_“Make it worth my time, dwarf.”_

_“Oh, well, thank you very much, very nice of you. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming. All right…_ _‘The Fenress Bride’, by yours truly, Chapter One…”_

_Fenris lived in a city-state called Kirkwall in the Free Marches. His favourite pastime was brooding and tormenting the tavern wench in the local bar. Her name was Isabela, but he never called her that. Technically, she wasn’t even a tavern wench._

_“Isn’t that a wonderful beginning?”_

_“Stop stalling, dwarf. Tell me about the Champion.”_

_“All in due time, Seeker.”_

_Nothing gave Fenris as much pleasure as ordering Isabela around._

Fenris burst into The Hanged Man, the sound waves of the door slamming open echoing with the overtones of elven broodiness. He stormed over to Isabela who leant against the worn countertop, the same casual pose as always, and he demanded in that extremely attractive voice of his, “Tavern wench! Polish my greatsword. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

Isabela downed the rest of Corff’s swill and turned lazily to say, “As you wish…” Then she winked and added, “I would never turn down such a handsome man wielding a… two-handed weapon.”

_‘As you wish’, followed by some sexual connotation, was all she ever said to him. And really, that was all Isabela ever said to anyone._

It was another day at The Hanged Man, and Fenris was brooding moreso than usual because he finished drinking the four bottles of Agreggio he brought with him. He turned to the familiar and curvaceous figure at the bar and said, “Tavern wench, fill these with wine.” And in a slightly charitable mood due to said wine, Fenris remembered his manners and reluctantly added, “… Please.”

Isabela smiled saucily, possibly finding an inebriated Fenris amusing. “As you wish… if that leads to a fantastic drunken orgy later upstairs.”

They both ignored Corff who grumbled that  _he_  should be the one providing the alcoholic beverages of dubious sanitation and lethality.

_That day, Fenris was amazed to discover that when Isabela was saying ‘As you wish’, what she meant was ‘I want to have sex with you’. He wasn’t the brightest at picking up blatant innuendo, you see. Even more amazing was the day he discovered that he wanted to have sex with her too, and that he didn’t mind when she ‘correctly guessed’ the colour of his smallclothes._

Flustered by one of Isabela’s  _saltier_  come-ons, Fenris sputtered, “ _Tavern wench!_ ” After realizing that he said this out loud and subsequently caught her attention, he grasped wildly for an excuse to explain his flustered exclamation. His brain supplied nothing remotely useful. “… Fetch me that pitcher?” Fenris said lamely, gesturing vaguely. It sounded even dumber to him out loud, and Fenris winced, wondering what — if anything — Isabela would say to  _that_.

But this was  _Isabela_. Isabela never gets caught with her pants down, presumably because she wears none. Unfazed even by this extremely strange request, Isabela sauntered over in that swaying way of hers, leaned in close, and whispered playfully, “… As you wish… if you’re planning to be the catcher and let me watch. Because that’d be hot.”

_“Bullshit!”_

_“Pardon me, Seeker?”_

_“What is this? Are you trying to trick me? Where is the Champion? Is this a… a ridiculous sequel to ‘Hard in Hightown’ titled something equally stupid like ‘Lust in Lowtown’?”_

_“No, no, of course not. That’s already been written. In fact, by the very same Isabela.”_

_“Tell me about the Champion!”_

_“Keep your armour on. Let me speak.”_

_Isabela had no patience for being landlocked, so she packed her few belongings and left Kirkwall to sail the seas. It was a very emotional time for Fenris._

_“I don’t believe this.”_

_“Alright, alright, I admit that was pushing suspension of disbelief a bit far, even for my tales. Let’s just say that Fenris brooded a little more than usual. Happier now?”_

_“The_ Champion _, dwarf!”_

_“He’ll appear when he’s supposed to appear. Never rush the storyteller.”_

Fenris looked down at his bare toes. “I fear I’ll never see you again.”

Isabela scoffed. “Of course you won’t!” She paused. “I meant ‘Of course you will!’”

Feeling it only proper to ignore the minor mental lapse and to show some concern for his strange companion, Fenris asked, “What if something happens to you?”

“Hear this now: I will always come for you,” Isabela promised, “and I don’t even mean that sexually, for once.”

It was a strange proclamation, strange enough that Fenris was puzzled by it. “But how can you be sure?” Fenris questioned, wondering with some small amount of awe how Isabela remained endlessly confident.

“Easy! You owe me money from Wicked Grace,” Isabela declared solemnly, effectively eliminating any blooming feelings of admiration Fenris felt over her previous statement. “Do you think I’m just going to let you off that easily?” She raised a questioning eyebrow, and when Fenris shook his head and resignedly mumbled “No”, she grinned in triumph.

_Isabela didn’t reach her destination. Her ship was attacked by Qunari dreadnoughts who never left stubborn basra alive. When Fenris heard rumours from Corff that Isabela’s ship sank —_

_“Murdered by Qunari is good.”_

_— he went into his mansion and locked the front door. I assure you, that never happens, except in dire circumstances. And for days, he neither slept nor ate. A regular occurrence, to be fair, but drinking that much alcohol on an empty stomach without sleeping it off cannot be healthy._

Fenris stared morosely at his steadily dwindling supply of Tevinter wine, broodily hurling an empty bottle against the wall. “I will never gamble again,” he grumbled, completely misinterpreting his emotional turmoil and thinking it was guilt from owing a debt that twisted his stomach, not something else.

_Three years later, the Viscount Way was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Knight-Commander Meredith’s husband-to-be. Normally marriages are a festive affair, but this one was extra special, mainly because everybody knew that there was no way this marriage would be made in love. After all, it was common knowledge that Meredith’s love was not a person._

Mage hunting _was Meredith’s love. Once she was determined, once she had focused on an apostate, the Knight-Commander was relentless. She never tired, never wavered, neither ate nor slept. It was death chess and she was international grand master._

_Anyway, the events that led up to the marriage are a bit unimportant, but it went something like this._

“The Viscount Dumar has had his annual physical,” the Count said. “I have the report.”

“And?”

“The Viscount is dying.”

“Drat!” said the Knight-Commander. “That means I shall have to get married.”

“… Sorry, what?”

“I need to marry the Viscount’s son so that I can become the next Viscount.”

“Can’t you just… ‘step in’ until another Viscount is chosen? Also, Saemus has run off with a Qunari and is therefore unavailable for marriage.”

“I see. Then I suppose I will marry anyway, if a suitable magic-hating candidate is found. Preferably with the ability to rip blood mage hearts out of their chests. Lyrium would also be nice; the price is skyrocketing these days. Oh, and they must brood  _spectacularly_.”

“Knight-Commander, I don’t think such a person exists.”

“Citizens of Kirkwall,” Meredith declared smugly, months later, addressing a scowling Count and an enraptured (and slightly terrified) crowd. “A month from now, our city will have its 500th anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a man who was once a commoner like yourselves. But perhaps you will not find him common now. Would you like to meet him?”

The crowds were silent for a few awkward seconds, not particularly inclined towards meeting someone Meredith possibly fancied. That is, silent up until the Knight-Commander levelled them with a steely glare. Then they all blurted out a resounding, “Yes!”

“My people,” said Meredith, extending a gauntleted hand, “the Broody-Elf Fenris.”

Heads swivelled to regard Fenris in all his sullen, slouching, and gown-wearing glory, and the citizens of Kirkwall began to wonder if Meredith was going mad.


	2. A Dwarf, Two Fereldans, and a Mabari Walk Into an Elf...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used one of my own Hawkes instead of Garrett, just because I always feel Garrett should be a mage. I needed Hawke to be a rogue in this fic for plot purposes, so I’m using my purple rogue Hawke instead of the default one.

_  
Fenris’ broodiness consumed him. Although the law of the land gave Meredith the right to scare the piss out of enough people into allowing her to choose her husband, he did not like her. Despite Meredith’s reassurances that he would grow to respect her, the only consolation he found was in his daily brooding._

During one of Fenris’ lengthier broods on the coastline, a bedraggled trio of people — a shrewd-looking dwarf, a lanky man with a rakish grin and hawkish stare, and the fiery haired woman that towered over both — plus a mabari, meandered their way towards him. The dwarf eventually trundled forward, saying, “A word, serah. We are but poor, lost merchants. Is there a settlement nearby?”

Fenris quirked a dubious eyebrow. “… Do you not notice the towering city with its distasteful statuary looming behind me?” he deadpanned, crossing his arms disdainfully.

The dwarf paused as if unsure how to answer the question, muttering under his breath, “By the Stone, my brother makes lying seem so _easy_.”

Feeling the desire to interact with these strangers slipping away even further, Fenris opened his mouth to shoo them away. Alas, a well-timed pommel to his head ensured that his requests were never voiced. Fenris fell like a sack of exceptionally broody potatoes.

“I almost pity the poor fellow, key word being ‘almost’, of course,” the man commented offhandedly, hefting the unconscious elf onto his back.

“And you are as _remarkably_ efficient as usual, Aveline.”

“ _Someone_ has to be, Hawke,” the woman named Aveline replied dryly.

Hawke visibly perked up, eager to engage in some form of banter — he was lacking in the companionable chatter as of late — when a sudden, invasively florid scent wafted up his nose. He craned his neck backwards and saw the dwarf wielding a small spray bottle. “Sweet Andraste, what _is_ that you’re doing?” sputtered Hawke, making indignant gagging sounds that were only partly inauthentic.

“It’s perfume from Orlais,” the dwarf explained, continuing to spritz the unfortunate elf with flowery evil, much to Hawke’s and his mabari’s dismay.

“Why _Orlais_?” Aveline asked, freckled nose crinkling in disgust at both the smell and reminders of her unwanted heritage.

“Why _not_ Orlais, the country to our southwest, a past occupant of Kirkwall?” The dwarf mercifully stopped spraying and tied a fancy bow around the mabari’s neck.

(“Poor Trousers,” Hawke said sadly, pitying his loyal hound because of the frilly humiliation. The mabari whined in agreement.)

“Once the dog reaches Templar Hall,” the dwarf proclaimed, “the bow and perfume will make the Knight-Commander suspect that Orlesians have abducted her fiancé. When she finds his body dead in the docks, her suspicions will be totally confirmed!”

There was a brief beat of silence. “Sorry?” Hawke cocked his head sideways. “So… that’s the brilliant plan? Conniving Orlesians came to Kirkwall, then decided they had _nothing_ better to do but kidnap and murder a tattooed elf because he’s going to marry the Knight-Commander? And Meredith will figure this out because a _Fereldan_ warhound with a ribbon will run to the Templar Hall, reeking of terrible perfume? This doesn’t exactly scream ‘foolproof’ to me. And by that, I mean ‘this is one of the barmiest things I have ever heard’, and I’ve chatted quite intensively with your brother.”

The mabari barked in agreement before pawing morosely at its hideous new collar.

“And I suppose you had a better plan?” the dwarf grumbled.

Hawke did a magnificent eye roll. “First? If Meredith was going to war on anyone, it’d be _Tevinter_. Y’know, all the unleashed magisters and their merry wrist cutting?” He pantomimed said action with exaggerated slashing motions, eyes rolling backwards, and head and tongue lolling, to Aveline’s mute disapproval. “Also, isn’t the elf an escaped slave from Tevinter? We could have had a nosebleed on the elf’s dress, sent it back, and Meredith would’ve suspected blood magic and slavers.” Hawke paused. “Only flaw is that the blood might not show up on… on zees _‘ideous_ red. Makehrr, ‘oo dezigned zees _fassyon atrozitee_?”

“That’s hardly any more foolproof,” Aveline remarked, still frowning from Hawke’s inappropriate pantomiming, and now also looking extremely disapproving because of Hawke’s ‘affronted Orlesian noble’ impression.

“Well, it’s better than Bartrand’s idea,” Hawke pointed out, returning to his natural accent. “See, I told you we should’ve gone with the beardless one. If I didn’t know better I’d say his beard refused to hide his manly chin and deigned to take root on his chest instead, bringing forth the most magnificent chesthair I’ve ever laid eyes on. Did you know he once made up a story where I tore the Arishok’s arms off during single combat by summoning a demon from the Fade? He made it sound so exciting that I almost believed it happened. The key word once again being, unfortunately, ‘almost’,” he added morosely.

“Enough!” Bartrand exclaimed. (“Yes, _enough_ ,” Aveline growled. “I have to agree with the dwarf this time.”) “I’ve hired you to help me convolutedly start an Exalted March for no sane reason. It’s a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious tradition. You were not hired to gossip about my brother’s manly faculties or make incessant clever quips.”

“Ah! So he admits they’re clever.” Hawke winked at Aveline. “I’ve been given a compliment! This is a marvellous novelty.”

Aveline ignored Hawke and turned to Bartrand with a deeper frown. “You never said anything about what this job was about. Your contact Anso made it sound like we were recovering smuggled lyrium —” she ignored Hawke’s comment that the elf was covered in possibly smuggled lyrium and kidnapping was akin to recovering “— not kidnapping and murdering an innocent elf.”

”Did you see that brooding, Aveline?” Hawke interrupted again. “ _Nobody_ who broods that intensely is completely innocent. They’ve usually killed a few dozen people, or at least closely related to somebody that has. Like on their father’s side, possibly, casting them into social stigma forever.”

“I don’t think the elf is that innocent either,” Aveline agreed, albeit still frowning, “but I do think we shouldn’t murder him. This isn’t right.”

Bartrand glowered. “Am I going mad, or did the word ‘think’ escape your lips? You were not hired for your brains, you hippopotamic land mass!”

“I agree with Bartrand,” Hawke chimed in. He promptly flinched at the glare sent his way, courtesy of two murderous green eyes. “Not the ‘hippopotamic land mass’ comment, obviously — you aren’t hippopotamic at all, it’s all burly muscle and sturdy Fereldan bones — _put the shield down_ Aveline, please don’t hit the face, _anything_ but the face — Andraste’s tits that was unnerving.” Regaining his composure once he felt slightly safer, Hawke explained, “Bartrand clearly did not hire you — or me — for our brains. Remember that utter farce he considered a plan earlier?”

“Oh! The sot has spoken!” Bartrand shouted, pointing a stubby dwarven finger in the general direction of Hawke. “What happens to the elf is not truly your concern. I will kill him, and remember this, _never_ forget this: when I found you, you were a copperless refugee and so slobbering drunk you couldn’t order a flagon of Corff’s ale!”

“Clearly I could order one, or rather many, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get so inebriated in the first place,” Hawke pointed out, but it fell on deaf ears.

“And you!” The dwarf wheeled around and pointed to Aveline. “Husbandless, tactless, jobless, hopeless!”

Aveline’s gaze darkened further. “Don’t you _dare_ bring up Wesley,” she hissed, clenching gauntleted fists.

Bartrand gestured violently at the pair of humans before him. “Do you want me to send both of you back to where you were, unemployed, in _blighted Ferelden_?!” Receiving nothing but sullen silence as an answer, he turned around and continued stomping towards their destination.

Hawke scoffed. “Pah. That was unpleasant. And entirely untruthful! You’re as far from the definition of ‘hopeless’ as I am from the definition of ‘tolerable’. Bartrand can be such an ass,” he said flippantly, shrugging his shoulders easily as if he wasn’t still supporting an unconscious elf with them.

One corner of Aveline’s mouth quirked upwards the barest of fractions, not exactly amused, but not exactly not amused either. “Now now, Hawke. Don’t be crass.”

“Aveline! You rhymed!” Hawke’s tone of voice implied that he was flabbergasted, but those who knew him well — like the woman he was gawking at — would recognize the unadulterated and unholy glee sparkling in his eyes. “You… you can rhyme? You can _joke_?!”

“Yes, Hawke. I made a rhyme,” Aveline said dryly, following after Bartrand in her clanking plate armour. “Let’s move on… and stop wasting time.”

“Sweet Maker, yet another rhyme!”

“You make it sound like it’s a crime.”

“I never took you to be a poet.”

“I’m full of surprises, Hawke… and you know it.”

“Enough of that!” Bartrand griped.

Hawke ceded for approximately one second before leaning sideways towards his redheaded friend and whispering conspiratorially, “Aveline, are there thugs ahead?”

“If there are, _they’ll soon be dead_ ,” Aveline declared darkly.

(Hawke winced a bit at this, because Aveline was speaking the truth. Maker’s breath, they were a violent bunch. In Aveline’s case, also _remarkably_ efficient.)

Bartrand looked ready to pitch a fit or explode, the latter of which would have been amusing if their paychecks weren’t dependent on the dwarf almost speechless from apoplexy. “No more rhymes now, I’m serious!”

Aveline shared a devious look with Hawke before allowing one of her rare smiles to creep onto her face. Never one to value coin over pissing off self-righteous fools, she said, “Why? Because they make you furious?”

 _Causing asshole dwarves to shriek in outrage will_ never _get old_ , Hawke cackled to himself, cheerily strolling behind the livid dwarf after giving Aveline a companionable pat on an armoured shoulder.


End file.
